Return to the Riser

Morning street noises grew too loud, so I turned back along the perimeter fence. Slipping beneath the garden gate, I returned to the quiet base of the house. Deep in the shadow under the wooden porch steps, an old cast-iron boot scraper sat anchored to the stone. I paused. Six slow breaths. Satisfied with the stillness, I reached out one long arm and tapped the iron blade with the tip of my claw. Clang. A dense, low vibration hummed through the metal and deep into the timber riser. I pressed my palms against the wood, letting the heavy chime welcome me home.